


Shitshow

by AnythingThrice



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2017 Stanley Cup Playoffs, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Breakups and New Beginnings, Consensual Infidelity, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Internalized Homophobia, Intimacy, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Relationship Negotiation, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2018-11-01 10:02:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 16,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10919553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnythingThrice/pseuds/AnythingThrice
Summary: Jonathan thought they'd outgrown this. Or no, if he's being honest with himself, he thought Pat had outgrown it while he'd merely shoved it aside, banished it to the realm of things it didn't help to dwell on.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started this spring 2017 after seeing the revival of Gay Porn Hard - but knowing I'd never produce anything in time - then abandoned it due to RL (and RL hockey feels) and subsequently came back to it as procrastination while I was supposed to be working on something else. It probably should have remained in the languishing, pointless WIP folder, but it won't leave me the fuck alone, so... Here goes.
> 
> Initially set after Game 2 of the 2017 Western Conference quarterfinals vs. Nashville (i.e. that 5-0 shitshow).
> 
> Disclaimer: All lies except (sadly) for the scores. Offered largely off the cuff (i.e. unbeta-d) and full of lots of Jonny's interior drama and expository feelings.

* * *

**Sunday 16 April 2017**

Jonathan's never going to be okay with losing. Never. But. At 28 he's more discriminating in his disappointment. He's beyond wondering – beyond worrying – why some losses fester in the gut, some get shat out and flushed away, and others feel like a ragged nail digging into a scab or a hot mouth on a bruise, edging into the kind of hurt that promises better things to come. He knows exactly what he did (or didn’t) do well and exactly how much he could (or couldn’t) have changed a damn thing.

And, while even a year ago he would have been feeling like he needed to get on top of this shit, to be the first one the rookies looked to for some hint of carrot after all the stick that had been going around the locker room after their latest episode of How Not To Hockey: Playoffs Edition, right now he just…

He watches his team as they board the plane to Nashville – chins up, eyes hard and bright – and knows that they've got this. That he doesn't need to babysit or pump tires or say another damn word on the subject. Tomorrow's a new day and a new game, and in the moment it'll be the only game that matters, like it always is, and they'll be fine.

 _They've got this,_ he thinks again, settling back in his seat and closing his eyes. _We've got this. All the right tools, all the right pieces in place. Just relax. Breathe. Focus. It'll be there._

"Where the hell is Kaner?" 

Q's not yelling, but his voice carries down the plane. 

Jonathan opens his eyes to find Seabs, Panner and half the rookies glancing back at him with worried expressions. Which. What the hell? Q's not even looking at him; he's clearly talking to Paul, who's just boarded. And yeah, he and Pat had got into it pretty good in the showers last night, but it had been more of a pressure release than anything else – roaring their frustrations at one another and slamming shit around because they needed to, because they could still be that for one another without it causing any lasting damage – and they'd parted on their usual terms.

"What?" Jonathan says, shrugging when Seabs doesn’t look away. "How would I know? Probably stuck in traffic."

Except Patrick's anal about planning for that shit these days, is rarely late and – going by his expression – Seabs knows it, too.

Jonathan's just acknowledging, and trying to breathe into, the feelings of embarrassment and unease when there's a commotion up front – laughter, shouts, ironic cheers – and suddenly Pat's barreling down the aisle, chin tucked to his chest and Powerbeats hooked over his ears. Any relief Jonathan feels disappears when he gets a good look at him.

Pale. Sweaty. _Vacant,_ like he's seen something he can’t process, or has gone into extreme media lockdown, no connection between his thoughts and what he allows on his face. He's been sucking hard on his busted lip. Chewing on it, even, as it looks worse than it did last night.

On instinct, Jonathan reaches out to grab Patrick's wrist as he passes. He doesn’t know whether he's more gratified or alarmed at how easily Pat lets himself be redirected and tugged into the window seat beside him.

"Nice of you to show," he says, loud enough to be overheard. "Never enough beauty rest where you're concerned, eh?"

Patrick doesn’t respond to the chirp, but then Jonathan's not really expecting him to. As soon as he lets go, Patrick fumbles his seatbelt across his lap and buckles it without looking, face turned toward the window.

"Breathe, Kaner," Jonathan says, softer now. "Relax. You're here now, and we've got this."

He's still searching for any indication that Patrick's heard him – that he's read this right and Pat's just had a bad night's sleep, a morning filled with minor doubts and irritations – when Patrick lifts his left arm and settles it on Jonny's armrest, fingers curled in a loose fist.

"Pat?"

He stares, stunned, as Patrick extends his index finger and taps it once, then, after a brief pause, extends his middle and ring fingers as well, just holding them there, pressing them into the padded leather. It's been over a year - nearly two - since they last… 

As the engines start up, Jonathan's hit with a vivid sense memory from even further back, one of many secretly - painfully - treasured firsts: _Skin to skin like he'd never dared imagine, Pat burrowed back against him, still warm from the shower and smelling like the hotel's citrus body wash; no space between them, barely enough air, even, what with the pillow Pat's dragged over their heads, like he's trying to hide from the words coming out of his own mouth, all the things he keeps saying he can't do, but wants anyway, wants Jonathan to beg him for._

_"Tell me, Jonny, tell me what you'd do if I ever let you… Do you dream about it? Bet you do. Bet you think if you could just get the tip in there, or your tongue, or…"_

Jonathan inhales sharply, crossing his arms over his chest. He glances around. Everyone's in their seats now, minding their own business. Panner's clamped his noise-cancelling headphones on; Seabs appears deep in conversation with Kers. Across the aisle, Hoss is on his second round of goodbyes with his girls. 

Still, Jonathan feels embarrassed, exposed. He clenches his jaw and keeps his eyes on the seatback in front of him as the plane begins to move.

He thought they'd outgrown this. Or no, if he's being honest with himself, he thought Pat had outgrown it while he'd merely shoved it aside, banished it to the realm of things it didn't help to dwell on. And if they gave out black belts in repression – according to David, with their maman overhearing and making her agreement plain by her shrug and pained smile – Jonathan's would be, like, at least a seventh-level dan. 

But if this is what Pat needs to get him through, to bring him back from whatever headspace has left him looking like he's gone nine rounds with his worst nightmare…

_Anytime, you told him. Anytime, no strings…no questions asked. No big deal. What are friends for?_

His freak-out lasts only as long as it takes to taxi into position on the runway. As the engine noise builds to a deafening whine, he turns his head to look at Patrick, who's hunched in his seat, radiating discomfort and staring out the window. 

He huffs, wishing he knew how not to backslide where Pat is concerned – or give a damn in the first place. Then, as if it's something he does every day, he unfolds his right arm and settles his hand on top of Pat's left.

Patrick tenses, then exhales, spreading his fingers and interlacing them with Jonny's. He keeps his face to the window, but he holds on tight as the plane picks up speed and judders up into the air.

 _Just relax. Breathe. Focus,_ Jonny thinks, except now it's nothing to do with the game.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

They don’t speak until Jonathan tries to disengage his hand. For a moment Patrick's not having it, squeezing hard enough his own knuckles crack, before he seems to realize what he's doing. He lets go with a muttered, "Sorry, man," and scrubs his hand over his face.

Frowning, Jonny leans in and unhooks one of his earpieces. Nine times out of ten, this would earn him a shove, but Pat just shivers and grabs for it, still not looking at him.

"You alright there?" he says, just as he realizes that no, Patrick's definitely _not,_ as there's no tinny bass beat, no burble of voices – no sound leaking from the earpiece whatsoever. "Kaner, what's – "

"She's out," Pat says suddenly. It comes out raspy and low, and at first Jonny's not sure what he's hearing. "Done, I mean. With me. Hasn't said it yet, 'cause she'd never…not during playoffs, but I know it's coming."

"Shit. No. Why would you think that?"

"Heard her last night. On the phone with her mom after… I just, I wanted to sleep alone, you know. Knew it wasn't going to be a good night. No big deal."

Patrick glances over, finally meeting his eyes for a moment, and Jonathan notices what he hadn’t before – Pat's lashes are gummy, his eyes bloodshot. The skin around them is puffy and red.

"She said… Fuck, Jon, the things she _said_ , like I'm…I'm busted somehow, or missing something, and she's done waiting around, trying to fill it in. Like I haven't been giving her every damn piece of me I can off the ice, and she knew from the start… Whatever. Then on the way to the airport – "

Pat breaks off, angrily rubbing at his eyes. Jonathan's still processing, trying to fill in the blanks, so it takes him a moment to realize that Pat's now launched into some other whole drama about his Uber.

"…stuck at a light. And I know better, I do, but I'd wanted some real air and I wasn't thinking, and this guy in the car next to us, he was… Like I'm talking Sharpy levels of dad-handsome, sitting there with his lady, couple of kids in the back. And he saw me. Recognized me, I mean, and he just stared straight ahead and he said – "

"Shh, don't – " Jonathan cuts in. He's not sure where this is going, but he's guessing it's nowhere good.

"Pussy," Pat says, glancing over again. "That's what he called me, called _us,_ Jonny, bunch of fucking pussies in an over-priced shitshow, and wasn't it a shame they couldn’t offload one of us to Vegas, where we'd be the least of the fr– " 

" _Don't_ , Patrick." Jonathan reaches for his hand and grabs it, giving it a firm squeeze. "Come on, not here. Let's get to the hotel, yeah?" He hates how shaky he sounds, and tries lowering his voice to cover for it. He scuffs his thumb over Pat's knuckles, leans in so he can speak directly into his ear. "We'll sort it out. Talk, or…whatever you need, but no more thinking about it right now. Can you do that for me?"

Patrick shudders. He shoots Jonathan a look like he's going to argue, eyes narrowed and chin jutting out. The busted lip makes him look even younger, somehow. Then he exhales with a huff and slumps in his seat.

"Sure, Jon," Pat says softly, turning his face away, back toward the window. He leaves his hand where it is, though. He doesn't let go until the plane begins its descent into Nashville, and no amount of belly breathing can help Jonathan focus on anything other than that startling – yet so motherfucking ordinary, for most people – point of contact: he's _holding hands_ with Patrick Kane.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

They don't sit together on the bus – Patrick plasters on his street face and claims the sacred "quiet spot" beside Duncs – but Jonathan keeps him in his eyeline, settling in beside Seabs a few rows back.

"All good?" Seabs asks, not looking up from his phone.

Jonathan grunts something noncommittal, but Seabs either knows him too well or isn't distracted enough – or maybe both – as he punches him lightly on the thigh, saying, "Kaner having a bad hair day?" 

Jonathan snorts. He hasn't heard that one in a while, can't remember exactly how it started, but it's really fucking apt shorthand for all the drama Pat seems to attract without demanding any details that might violate his intricate codes of friendship and privacy.

"Something like that." 

Seabs glances over, brow furrowed. "You got it though?"

"Don't I always?" Jonathan says, extra deadpan, thinking, _I'd better._

He studies the view of Patrick his seat affords him: sliver of leg, most of an arm, the back of an earlobe, tufts of hair already defying whatever crap it's been slicked down with. It's the nice-smelling one, at least; he'd noticed that on the plane. He thinks it's the same as whatever Pat had used for the Top 100 ceremony. Patrick had smelled good that whole weekend – off the ice, at any rate, though Jonathan's never really minded hockey sweat – and they'd been allowed to stick close to one another like they rarely get to anymore at team events.

Jonathan had caught himself, more than once, leaning close under the guise of trying to hear Pat better and actively breathing him in in happy lungfuls. He'd tried not to dwell on whether or not sniffing Kaner was weird, nor why the whole All-Star weekend had felt so good, been actually _fun_ despite the uncomfortable hype and the Central's miserable tournament showing.

Jonathan startles as Seabs delivers another thigh-punch, this one hard enough to sting. 

"What the hell?" he says, glaring. Seabs leans across him, pointedly looking up the aisle.

"Better make sure you've got yourself, too, bud."

Jonathan shoves him back towards the window. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Seabs gives him a long look, then shakes his head. "Your face, sometimes. Still. I thought – "

"Shut up."

"I'm not saying you – "

"Then _don't_. Seriously. Shut it."

Seabs narrows his eyes, nostrils flaring, but after a moment he lifts his hand, palm out.

"Okay, Jonny. Your way. But if that ever changes, you know where to – "

"Got it," Jonathan cuts in, tapping his knuckles to Seabs' palm. "Thanks."

He conspicuously ups the volume on his earbuds and, for the rest of the ride, pretends to be thoroughly engrossed in both the seatback in front of him and the podcast on permaculture he'd downloaded for the trip.

It might as well be in Czech for all he actually pays attention. He's stuck wondering what his face had looked like just now, what it is that Seabs thinks he's seen. He doesn't mind the guys chirping him over all the attention he gives Patrick, but he's not sure he could stomach their pity or discomfort if they really knew.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be on the safe side, I've added a tag for Implied/Referenced Self-Harm. See end notes for more details.

At the hotel, Patrick slips off to the elevators along with Soupy and Hoss as soon as they get their keycards. Jonathan forces himself to make the necessary rounds, ensuring that nobody needs him for anything, that the rookies all know where they're supposed to be and when. 

By the time he gets to his room, there's only an hour and change left before their team meeting. He's pretty damn sure Patrick will have already unlocked and opened the connecting door on his side, so he's got no good explanation for why he takes his time settling in, swigging water as he hangs up his spare suit, removes his shoes and socks, and stashes his dopp kit beside the sink. 

He wonders if he'd lied back there on the plane, if he's still prepared to give Pat whatever he needs, no questions asked and no matter the cost.

He figures he might as well take a piss while he's in the bathroom. He washes his hands afterward, then, embarrassed – but not enough to not do it – he gargles with the hotel mouthwash and applies a fresh coat of his kokum butter lip balm. 

If Patrick had changed his mind or wanted him to knock first, he would have shoved the "Do Not Disturb" sign under Jon's door. Still, Jonathan bangs on it and counts to five before unlocking it and flinging it open.

"So since when do you give a shit what – " Jonathan breaks off, staring at the bed. 

Patrick's not sitting on it, or lounging back against the headboard, or even huddled in a miserable ball under the covers like Jonathan had expected. No, he's lying face down on top of it, bare-assed fucking naked, pale skin practically glowing where it intersects the circles of lamplight. He's got marks on his back, a crisscross pattern of thin pink lines that weren't there last night and that Jon wishes he didn’t recognize.

"Pat?" 

Patrick's response is faint, muffled by his arms. Jonathan crouches by the head of the bed, trying not to look too closely, to keep his eyes up at a safe level, except there really is no safe level with Pat and it's so goddamn _frustrating_.

"What was that?" 

Patrick lifts his head, but only to turn it away from Jonathan, towards the windows. 

"Hey, I…" Patrick says. He's got the blackout shades pulled down, and right now that's pissing Jonathan off as well. He's tired of all the shame, of being sucked into Patrick's particular lapsed Catholic version of it. "I know we should probably talk, but for now, can you just, uh…"

He shifts a little, adjusting his hips, stretching his legs.

"You wanna get fucked, is that it? Want to know what it really feels like? Or are you just looking for another excuse to punish yourself?" 

It's a low blow, but it gets Patrick to finally turn his head, somehow managing to look furious and uncertain all in one go, so Jonathan's not apologizing. Furious and uncertain is a good look on Patrick, especially naked, though it's possible Jonathan's biased.

"No, not… No." Patrick blinks, frowning, then runs his tongue along his busted lip. "You know what I… C'mon, Jon, take off your clothes. Come lie down."

"Lie down where?" 

"On the ceiling, asshole. Where do you think?" 

"Maybe I need reminding."

Patrick licks his lip again. He won't meet Jonny's eyes, but his attention is focused on him, gaze roving over his chest and the margins of his face. He reaches out and touches Jonny's neck, strokes the skin there before curling his fingertips and giving a gentle tug. 

"On me," he says. "On top. Come keep me warm, Jonny."

And Jonathan's got no comeback for that, no fucking armor against the fierce lick of desire those words – not to mention the soft, needy pressure of Pat's fingers – have him feeling. All he can do is delay his obedience, double-checking the outer door and setting an alarm before stripping off his suit and shirt. He takes his time draping them over a chair.

Patrick watches it all with sleepy eyes. "Nope," he says as Jonathan approaches the bed in his boxer briefs. "Underwear too."

Jonathan pauses, adjusting himself. "You know I, uh…probably gonna get hard." 

"I know," Pat murmurs, pillowing his face on his arms once more. "S'okay."

His casual arrogance does nothing to help the situation – where Pat's concerned, the fine line between anger and arousal has always been a bit blurry – and Jonathan's cock seems to take being set free at Pat's command as full permission to start getting ideas, thickening between his thighs as he adds his boxer briefs to the pile on the chair. 

He's careful to hold himself up as he crawls onto the bed. He positions himself over Patrick and lowers himself in a single, swift motion, hoping his erection won’t be too noticeable in the general crush. He makes sure it's off to one side, trapped safely against Pat's glutes.

Patrick grunts, tensing up beneath him. "Damn, Jonny. You weren't kidding. Dick still loves me, huh?"

"Shut up," Jonathan mutters, nosing at the back of Pat's neck. "You're naked and you don't smell terrible. Dicks are dumb like that."

"You're chirping your own dick? Harsh."

"I'm telling you to shut up and relax." He runs his hands slowly down Patrick's arms, out from shoulders to elbows, then up from elbows to forearms, where he takes hold. He tugs Pat's hands out from under his head and presses them to the mattress. 

Still, Patrick remains tense beneath him. It feels like he's trying to hold his breath. Jonathan lifts his head.

"Shit, am I hurting you? Your back…" He pushes up, peering down between them. Up close the marks don't seem as bad, but Jonathan doesn't have a whole lot of experience to go on here. 

"No. It's fine. But your, uh…" Patrick flexes his glutes, and Jonathan wants nothing more than to do the same, to lazily grind against the firm muscle, to hold Pat down and – 

"Feels weird there," Patrick continues. "Kind of digging into a sore spot. Just put it in the middle, like… Here, push up a sec."

Jonathan does, gritting his teeth and swallowing hard as Patrick shifts against him, realigning his hips so Jon's cock is cradled between his cheeks.

"There," Pat murmurs, finally going boneless. "Like that. Better, right?"

And no, it's not better at all, but Jonathan just hums as he settles back in, giving Patrick his full weight. He focuses on Patrick's breath, on matching the rhythm of it. He counts twenty-three cycles before his dick starts to soften and he can fully appreciate both how fucked up and how nice this is, Pat wearing him like a blanket, just being close and quiet and still.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tag for Implied/Referenced Self-Harm refers to Jonathan seeing physical evidence that Patrick's been engaging in mild self-flagellation. (Please note that while Jonathan, as the POV character, does not understand/disapproves of the practice and blames Patrick's religious and cultural upbringing, such acts are not a common or normally sanctioned part of modern Catholicism.)
> 
> Also, thank you so much for all the lovely, encouraging comments! I'm sorry I can't promise a regular posting schedule, but I am going to keep plugging away at this, for better or worse, until it's all out of my head (i.e. though I would never turn away a nice comment, this is definitely not a won't-write-more-unless-asked type deal :-)


	5. Chapter 5

Jonathan's not asleep, but he's down deep in some sort of meditative headspace when the alarm goes off. It's too loud and too soon – feels like only a few minutes have passed since he finally relaxed – and he turns his head to check that, yes, that's his phone on the nightstand being an asshole. 

The lamp's being an asshole, too, the metal base too shiny and the light too bright in his eyes, turning Patrick's hair and the headboard's wood veneer panels a terrible, muddy orange and _Ugh, eyesight is overrated_ he thinks, noting how settled, how refreshed he feels beneath the onslaught of surface irritations. _Like coming out of the float tank._

Maybe he'll save his money this summer, hit Patrick up instead. Put it on the schedule, even, every two weeks: naked Kaner-blanket meditation. No girlfriends, no erections allowed. He'll be tenth-level in no time. 

The thought has him laughing – it's absurd, but he could totally see himself asking a few beers into some June evening, getting a little too handsy or sending half-joking texts, all plausibly deniable if Pat didn't want to play along – and Jonathan doesn’t get how dangerous this is until he feels Patrick tense up beneath him.

They're jiggling the mattress, or rather, Jonathan is with his laughter, taking Patrick along for the ride in a sad parody of lovemaking, but shit _shit_ those are Pat's glutes squeezing his dick, pressing against his balls; it's the breadth of his back, all of his skin sliding against Jonathan's; it’s the springy softness of his arm hair under Jonathan's fingers and…

Pat grunts, shifting awkwardly beneath him, and Jonathan rolls off in a hurry, scooting to the edge of the bed. 

"Sorry," he mutters. He grabs his phone, pretends like switching off the snooze function takes all his attention.

"…the hell?" Patrick says, yawning. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing. Just…" He makes the mistake of looking over his shoulder. Patrick's got his head pillowed on his arms. He's blinking slowly, mouth slack, left cheek creased where it was pressed against a crisp fold in the top sheet. It's his dumb stoned-looking, post-nap face. The only thing dumber is how much Jonathan's into it, how it gets him a little angry – hating the thought of anyone else seeing Pat look so vulnerable – and a little horny, too, because it reminds him of how Pat looks after he gets off.

Jonathan shrugs, turning back to his phone. "Weird dream, I guess. Must have dozed off. Good news for your second career as a mattress." He stands, ignoring Pat's snort and the pillow that hits him between the shoulder blades, and crosses to the chair where he left his clothes. "C'mon, get your sorry ass up and back into some pants. We've got a meeting in ten."

"Aye, aye, Cap'n."

They dress in silence. It's not awkward, but Jonathan's hyper-aware of all the things he's not saying that he probably should, of how deliberately he doesn’t look at Patrick until he's fully clothed. 

"So, you good?" he says at last, pausing by the connecting doors. He needs his shoes. "For now, I mean."

He glances up to see Patrick grimacing. He doesn’t know if it's meant for him or the twisted shirt cuff he's fussing with. He resists the urge to go over and help, to reach out with a huff and reel Pat in in the wordless _here, let me_ developed over years of rooming together.

Instead, he heads back into his own room, saying, "Look, she didn’t know you could hear her, right? She was probably just blowing off some steam. You know how it gets sometimes. I'm sure she didn't mean – "

"Didn’t mean it when she asked if they'd help with a tuition deposit for the fall, if she needed it?"

"What?" Jonathan straightens up from retrieving his socks and shoes. He's surprised to find that Patrick has followed him into his room, is much nearer than he'd expected. He's looking around but not seeing much, going by his expression. He's still fiddling with his cuffs.

"Grad school. I'm assuming hospitality management, or some shit with tourism. That's what she used to talk about when… But, yeah. Apparently she's deciding between Purdue and Michigan State."

"Dude, even so, she'd have to fucking apply first, right? So that's at least a year before…" Jonathan trails off as Patrick finally looks at him, eyes burning with something he doesn't recognize. He hopes it's not pity.

"She has fucking applied. She _did_ , apparently. Last fall."

"Shit." Jonathan blows the word out on a long exhale, drops his shoes and socks before realizing how stupid that is, like Pat's going to fly into his arms for comfort. He scrubs a hand over his face instead, scratches at a nonexistent itch at the back of his neck.

So of course that's when Patrick surprises him yet again, surging forward and grabbing at him, wrangling him into some acceptable medium between bro-hug and intimate embrace and butting his face into Jonathan's neck in an all-too-familiar not-kiss that nonetheless has him melting into it, tilting his head to give Pat better access.

"Yeah, so…got plans later?" Patrick says. His lips are so near his throat, Jonathan can almost feel the vibration. He swallows. He should tell Patrick to call her, find out why she hadn't said anything – or maybe just make nice, keep that connection open and easy until they're done with the postseason, like she'd obviously wanted to do. 

He should probably break his usual postseason silence and call Linds, ask her if she'd heard anything, give her a heads-up. Instead, he gets a hand on Patrick's neck, grips it firmly with a forefinger behind his ear and thumb at his jaw; he tilts his head just so, lets his lips skim the soft down of Patrick's ear as he says, "Door's always open if you need me."

He hates the sick, jumpy feeling in his gut, but fucking _loves_ the way Patrick shivers and clutches at him and how, even once they're out in the hall mingling with the other guys waiting for the elevator – even during the team meeting – he sticks close.

If Duncs and Seabs or any of the other vets sense anything's up, they don’t do or say anything to give it away, and Jonathan doesn’t know whether to be grateful for that trust or uneasy at its very existence.

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

By unspoken agreement – and yeah, fine, maybe there is something to the joke about him being fluent in English, French, and Kaner – they mix things up at mealtimes, sitting with different groups of guys. 

Jonathan gets caught up talking with Darls and Hayds after dinner. By the time he makes it back to his room, Patrick's changed into shorts and a t-shirt, the loose, soft kind he sleeps in. He's got a fuckton of lights on though, both TVs too, and is pacing between their rooms in socked feet, phone clamped to his ear.

Jonathan glares pointedly while flicking off the master switch in his entryway, then goes on a hunt for wherever Pat's left his remote. He spares him any lip though, as he can tell just by looking that it's his mom on the other end and, despite whatever baggage Patrick's family have saddled him with, they're his chosen rock, which means Jonathan's never got over his own need to prove himself there, to _win_ at dealing with them, as lame as it sounds in his own head.

"…sure, uh-huh. Will do," Patrick is saying. Then, softer, "I _know_ , alright? I just don't think…" He frowns as Jonathan turns the TV off, then turns and pads back into his own room.

Jonathan strips down to his boxer briefs, hangs up his suit and heads into the bathroom to brush his teeth. He assumes Patrick's going to be a while, so is surprised when he turns up a moment later, hovering in the bathroom doorway.

"Hey asshole I was watching that," he says. There's no heat in it though. He meets Jonathan's eyes in the mirror, smirking a little when he sees his foaming mouthful of paste.

Jonathan knows he's thinking of the old "rabid Toews" schtick, but Bur and Sharpy aren’t here to really wind him up, plus he hasn't been that stupid-angry in a long time.

"Also my mom says hi." 

Jonathan takes his time with his molars. Spits. Rinses. It's so dumb, but he knows he's going to do it anyways. 

"Hi, Donna," he says to the mirror, deadpan, watching Patrick's smirk pull into the start of a real smile. "Bonsoir, Donna." He wants to ask if everything's all right at home, if he'd told his mom, but there's already enough on the table. 

Instead, he wipes his face and nudges Pat out of the doorway so he can get past, saying, "And you were not. Didn’t even have them on the same channel."

Patrick clucks his tongue, trailing him deeper into the room. "There's this thing called multitasking, Jon. I hear I'm good at it."

"That's a myth you know. It's not an efficient use – "

"Eyes on the men, eyes on the space, eyes on the clock – "

"You're just switching, really fast. Your brain fills in the rest from experience."

Pat plucks one of the lurid orange bolster pillows off a chair and mimes wielding it like a stick. "Look up, pass right. Look right, shoot left."

"That's not…" Jonathan makes a one-hand grab for the pillow, but Patrick scoots out of reach. "You _practice_ that shit, Pat. It's muscle memory and good spatial awareness."

"Still two things at once." Patrick waggles the pillow at him, then tosses it onto the bed. "Breaking records while breaking hearts, baby. Patting my head and rubbing my stomach, see?"

"Ugh, how is every word out of your mouth so…" Jonathan turns his back, rummaging in his bag for who-the-hell-knows because he _can_ see – Pat standing beside his bed in his dumb socks and his dumb soft shirt, looking goofy and relaxed – and while cheering Patrick up is the point here, Jon doesn't like what it's doing to his own composure. 

"Fallacies, man. All your arguments are full of them. And for the nth time – " He hears Pat's snort-chuckle and whirls around, whipping a balled-up pair of socks at him. " – no, that doesn’t mean dicks!"

Patrick bobbles the catch, the socks bouncing off his chest, but he manages to hang on, shooting Jonathan a triumphant, infuriating grin. 

He wants to wipe it off, smear it into something safer, whether by kissing or violence, and that thought terrifies him. He takes a deep breath and crosses his arms over his chest.

"Look, what are we doing here? You actually want to solve shit with your girl, you'll have to talk to her, but if you need to vent…" He trails off as the smile disappears, vanishes like someone flipped a switch. 

Patrick looks down at the sock ball in his hand and makes a frustrated sound, squeezing it hard enough to make the veins stand out. He shakes his head, then glances up at Jonathan. 

"Need to play," he says. "Need to _win._ "

Right. Good. Jonathan nods, because he can work with that. "So, visualisations, whiteboard, or game tape?" 

Pat licks his lips, eyes darting around the room before settling on Jon's arms. "Was thinking more like before, actually. Except I want to get off, if that's…with you, I mean. You touching me, if that's still cool."

Jonathan stares, remembering to nod again before it gets awkward. "For sure," he adds, wincing internally at how eager he sounds. He uncrosses his arms and walks over to Patrick, holding a hand out for his socks. "Your room in ten?"

"Uh, I was thinking…" He glances up, passing the sock wad idly from hand to hand, ignoring Jon's outstretched hand. "In here, maybe?"

Jonathan swallows, because Patrick can’t possibly mean… "What now?"

"In your bed, Jonny."

And the way Pat is looking at him, Jonathan can see that the fucker _does_ mean, that he remembers those lines in the sand.

_"My bed, my rules, Kaner, which means you shut up when I tell you to, you settle down after and go the fuck to sleep and…yeah, no, you've got to lose the socks. I'm not touching you in those."_

Something reckless takes hold of him. He lifts his chin, narrows his eyes. "If we're in here, I get off too."

"Of course, man." Patrick flushes, but holds Jonny's gaze. "Wasn't going to leave you hanging."

"And kissing."

"Huh?"

"I may…I want to be able to kiss you, alright? On the mouth. That's what gets me going sometimes, and I'm not used to separating that shit out anymore."

"Oh." Pat swallows, nodding dumbly. His gaze drops to Jonathan's mouth. "Sure. Okay. I never realized…um, yeah. That's all good."

"Good." 

"Right, so…"

Jonathan figures it out just before it happens, what it means the way Patrick is tilting his face up and swaying in. What's left of his self-preservation is telling him to take a step back, to say, "Not _now_ , Romeo. When your hand's on my dick. Preferably after you've brushed your teeth."

Instead he takes Patrick's head in his hands and stoops to plant one on him. It's a solid, no-nonsense, way beyond friendly _yeah it's like that, and there's more tongue where that came from_ kiss. He doesn't spare Pat's busted lip, gets a thrill from the little wounded, whining noise he makes in his throat before he pulls away.

"Jesus," Patrick mutters, staring at Jonny with wide eyes. "You weren't kidding."

Jonathan smirks at him, but resists the obvious joke. He hooks a thumb towards the connecting doors. "Go turn off all the crap in your room. And lose the socks."

Patrick backs away wordlessly, but near the door he spins and takes a jump shot, sending Jonny's wadded up socks arcing into his open bag. He winks before strolling back into his own room.

"Funny, asshole," Jonathan calls out. "I meant the ones on your feet." 

As a comeback it's worse than lame, but he can't be bothered to think up anything better, as his brain's still snagged on the taste of Pat's mouth, of the realization that Pat had got hard from that single kiss. Jonny had seen the evidence during the jumper, the bobbing thickness distending the line of Pat's shorts, the fat crown tenting the fabric, the outline of it plainly visible when he'd lifted his arms to release the shot.

_Doesn’t mean anything,_ he thinks. But he can't deny that he likes knowing, fucking _loves_ knowing.

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

When Jonathan hears the shower running, he figures Patrick's going to be longer than ten minutes, but he doesn't mind. He knows Pat likes to get warm before bed sometimes, claims it helps him get a better night's sleep. He takes the time to sit and center himself, goes through one of his breathing and stretching routines. Then he turns off the random floor lamps that aren't on the master switch, leaving a single bedside reading light on, and untucks the covers before climbing into bed. 

He loves fresh, cool linens but hates that strapped-down feeling, still has nightmares about being plastic wrapped to that fucking pine tree his first year at UND. He's still rucking the whole triple-sheeted menace into something that feels more like home when Patrick returns.

Patrick is barefoot, as requested, and bare-chested, too, though he's got his shirt slung over his shoulder. As he walks in, he's in the process of finger combing his hair back off his face with one hand. It looks damp and sort of crazy, which means he's washed the gunk out of it. He pauses for a moment inside the door, watching Jonathan wrangle and punch-test the various pillows.

"What?" Jonathan says. It comes out kind of pissy, which isn't what he intended, but, hey, he kind of misses the days when hotel pillows were all the same firmness – not to mention the same fucking normal-pillow-rectangle size – and didn’t come in odd amounts. 

It's also possible that he's feeling self-conscious. He shoves the fifth pillow behind him, flips one side of the covers back and jerks his head towards it in lieu of ordering Pat to either leave or get his ass in bed.

Patrick shakes his head, lips pulling into one of those close-mouthed, there-then-gone smiles that could mean anything from amusement to nerves to some major anger roiling beneath the surface. Jonathan's guessing (hoping) it's not the latter.

"Nothing. Here, catch." Pat chucks something at him underhand, dragging his shirt off his shoulder as he comes around the side of the bed.

Jonathan's heart rate kicks up for the few, wild seconds it takes him to realize it's not condoms or K-Y – of course not, why would it be? – but a creme of some sort. Going by the picture on the label, the main ingredient is aloe. He glances at it, puzzled, as Patrick sits on the edge of the mattress.

"You want me to use… What, you sunburn your dick or something?"

Patrick snorts. "No, dumbass. It's for my back." He glances over, and it's like a gut-punch, what Pat's giving out with a few seconds of half-lit face. Vulnerable. Fierce. Way too used to cutting his losses and pretending like none of it really matters. "I can kind of reach if I have to, but, it's easier if someone else…you know, if that's cool?"

For the record, Jonathan's never fallen for Patrick's aw-shucks shy rookie routine – not that it was ever aimed at him – nor his aw- _yeah_ cocky rookie routine, nor any of that devil-inside-the-angel horseshit, either. But this is Pat being himself, or as much of himself as he ever allows around people he cares about. This is Pat trusting him _and_ testing him, all at the same time, and Jonathan doesn't need this kind of headfuckery anywhere near his bed or his postseason, let alone his heart. 

He's opening his mouth to say…well, something to this effect, when Patrick adds, "She doesn’t get it. Thinks it’s always about her – us, whatever – and my stuff with…uh, sex. And I know you don't approve, but shit, Jonny, at least you…" He glances over again, unconsciously chewing his lip. 

"It's about my game, as much as anything else, yeah? About discipline, staying focused on what I need to, whatever it takes. Getting out of my own way. You gotta understand that."

And _that,_ that right there is just… It's not fair, but it's not wrong, either, and Jonathan would have to brand a capital-H-for-hypocrite on his forehead if he tried to pretend otherwise. He looks down at the tube in his hand. 

"I understand you don’t owe me an explanation," he says quietly, flicking the lid open with his thumb. "Now c'mere already. Just got comfy, not shifting all that way just for you. " 

It's a damn lie, that last part, but Patrick doesn't call him on it. He scoots nearer, turning his back and pulling his legs into a loose cross-legged pose. Jonathan squeezes a dollop of thick, white lotion onto his fingers and gives it a sniff – not terrible, something mildly herby – before smearing it onto Pat's skin.

Patrick shivers at the first touch, then hunches his shoulders and bows his head, leaning forward a little to give Jonathan better access. The marks are mostly mid-back, below his shoulder blades, crisscrossing his lats. Jonathan tries to keep his touch light as he rubs the lotion in, but the idea of Pat flogging himself makes his blood boil. Plus, he can't help thinking of where this is headed, of Pat wanting Jonny's hands on his dick so bad he'll do it on Jonny's terms without argument – of that _kiss_ and how there could be more of them happening real soon, and it's messed up and exciting and…

Patrick grunts. Jonny realizes that the lotion's nearly all rubbed in, that he's just straight up massaging Pat's back now, digging his thumbs in hard along his spine.

"Sorry," he says, pausing, but he doesn’t pull his hands away. Patrick mumbles something. "What was that?"

"Feels good." 

"Yeah?"

"Mmm. Good news for your second career at a rub 'n' tug."

And that's just… Shit fucking _goddamn_ is Patrick ever a handful and then some, is ever anything less than the most insightful, irritating thing on Jonny's horizon.

"Fuck off," he says fondly, butting his face against Pat's shoulder. 

And of course just when he's thinking he's got this, that he's in control, Patrick makes a sudden movement, whipping around, pushing Jonathan back against the pillows and straddling his lap. 

"So…" Pat says, leaning down and nuzzling his face alongside Jonathan's. "You're really into this, huh, Jonny? Wanna kiss me and shit, make me your best girl…"

 _Want everything with you,_ Jonathan thinks, closing his eyes and clamping his hands on the hard rounds of Patrick's ass, drawing him in, bucking his pelvis up against what feels an awful lot like an erection.

"Fuck you," he whispers, nipping at Patrick's earlobe. He slides a hand around and down, pressing his thumb against that undeniable bulge and listening to the hitch in Pat's breath, followed by a noisy exhale. Then he works his hand up under the leg of Pat's shorts, past tense muscle and coarse curls, until he's got a thick handful of warm, satiny skin. "And it's got nothing to do with girls, Kaner. I thought we'd been over that."

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

Patrick's shorts aren't tight, but given the position he's in, there's not a whole lot of room to work with. Jonathan doesn’t mind. There's something satisfying in just holding Pat's dick like this, trapped in its cotton cage, his knuckles mashed against Pat's groin and thumb collaring the head. 

He likes Pat's dick, thinks it's pretty great, subjectively speaking – subjectively, as Jonathan's not sure he believes in objectively great dicks. He's seen enough to know that there are all sorts – far more variety in the wild, so to speak, than what he's glimpsed in porn – and he's heard enough locker room talk, seen enough relationships develop to know that there are all sorts of people who presumably (allegedly) enjoy all those various dicks. 

And while his libido's not completely immune to monster glistening porn dick, it's more like how his mouth reflexively waters at burger ads when he's hungry; he's never actually seen a random penis and been like, _Hoo yeah, now there's a real beaut right there, top-shelf, gotta get up on one just like it or else there's no point in living._

No, he's long since figured out that he likes Patrick's dick because it's _Patrick's._ It's definitely more of a grower, but it's pretty girthy even when it's soft; hard, it feels insistent and unbelievably fat, more than filling Jonathan's hand. And even with all his hangups and general modesty – at least when sober – Pat's always seemed happy with it, delighted by the pleasure it can bring. 

As a roommate he'd been unapologetic, if initially red-faced, about how often he jerked off – _"Got all the sleep aid I need right here, Jonny, you should try it sometime"_ – and if the way he's reacting now is any indication, he's still so easy for being taken in hand, all worked up at the thought of someone else touching him there, of someone else actually wanting to even though the good women of Chicago and a fair few other cities have long since disproved his sisters' pronouncement that most girls think dicks are weird and gross and that his is definitely the grossest.

"C'mon," Pat murmurs, hips squirming. He's breathing through his mouth, all ragged and wet-sounding. He tightens his grip on Jonny's shoulders. "C'mon, you know what I mean."

 _Do I?_ Jonathan wonders, not for the first time, but he just noses behind Pat's ear and kisses him there, then gives his dick a gentle squeeze, saying, "Know that you're no girl…definitely not my best."

This gets him another aborted hip-thrust and noisy exhalation, the latter ending on a chuckle.

Patrick pulls back far enough to look down between them. His eyebrows are doing something weird, almost angry-looking, but his mouth's hanging open, his expression rapt as he stares at his own crotch and the obscene bulge of Jonny's invading hand.

"You are really into it though?"

He says it so softly Jonathan wonders if he can get away with pretending not to have heard, or that he thought it was a rhetorical question. But then Patrick glances up, searching Jonathan's face like if he tries hard enough, he'll be able to read his thoughts, plain as red marker on a whiteboard.

He's not sure Patrick's ready for the real answer to that question – he's sure as hell not ready to say it – so instead he smirks and begins to move his thumb, sliding the hot skin beneath it up and down with the barest hint of pressure, world's laziest handjob. 

"You want my thousand words for _The Players' Tribune_ about liking dick, or do you want me to show you?" He swipes his thumb up, across Pat's slit, and pushes down hard when he feels the moisture there. If he can’t taste it, he's at least going to get his hands dirty, get that scent soaked deep into his skin.

"Jon, just… _ungh,_ hey…'m serious. It's been awhile. Earlier, that was…I needed that, yeah, but I know I was being selfish. You don't have – "

"Pat, _Pat,_ " Jonathan cuts in, giving his dick another squeeze.

"Hwuh?"

"Remember how my rules mean you have to shut up when I tell you to?"

"Uh, sure, but – "

"So shut up, get off me, and – " Jonathan gives Pat's ass a hard smack with his left hand, then plucks at his shorts. " – get these off, unless you want me to mess them up."

If Jonathan thought furious and uncertain was a good look on Patrick, then furious and uncertain _and_ so worked up he at first tries to shuck his shorts with Jonathan's hand still trapped inside them is truly something else. It's fucking beautiful, is what it is, if potentially hazardous to his career.

"Watch the wrist there, buddy. Kind of need it."

Patrick's clearly itching to respond but doesn't, at least not with words, which means he's obeying orders, and that revs Jonny right up. He bucks Pat off and shimmies out of his own underwear. In the process, he finds the discarded tube of lotion and tosses it and his boxer briefs in the direction of the nightstand. By the sound of it, the lotion winds up on the floor, but Jonathan could care less. He rolls onto his side, cupping himself in one hand, watching Patrick grimace and twist until he's got his shorts off and kicked down to the foot of the bed.

He doesn't censor his gaze like he does in the showers, allows himself to look as more than a friend, to give in to a sudden wash of dumb, animal lust as he anticipates that tight little ass backing up towards his groin, those hard-won thighs flexing against his own, the sounds Pat'll make when he reaches around and finally gets a proper grip on him, gives him exactly what he needs.

"There you go," he murmurs, reaching out with his free hand and skimming his knuckles down Patrick's side, his hip, resisting the urge to manhandle him into place. "That's it. I got you."

He has to yank his hand out of the way as Patrick suddenly rolls towards him, slotting a leg between his and surging in close, so close that if Jonathan didn't have a hand down there, their junk would be touching.

"Whuh…what're you – " He gets out before remembering he told Pat to shut up. He decides he doesn't care, anyway, because now Patrick's pulling Jonathan's hand away and trying to get it onto his own dick, and for a moment their junk _is_ touching, Pat thrusting into it with a little grunt before he makes enough space to worm his hand in there too. He curls it around Jonny's shaft and gives an experimental tug, nudging Jonny's balls with his thigh, and Jonny has to grit his teeth to keep from moaning.

"Thought maybe we could try it like this. More efficient, right? 'Specially since you want…" Patrick trails off, swallowing heavily, and looks up at him.

Jonathan can hear Pat's throat working, can hear his heartbeat – imagines he can feel it, even, throbbing between his legs. He can smell his shampoo and mouthwash vapors, the fading herbal scent of his back creme. If pressed, he could probably figure out why all the odd pieces of Patrick's face, long-familiar by now, still fascinate and unsettle him, especially at this range. In fact, he could probably write some truly awful, sappy song lyrics about it, and for the life of him he has no idea what the fuck's going on anymore until he remembers, _kissing, right, KISSING._

But by then Patrick's doing what he so often does, namely, going for it – taking Jonathan's good, solid, practical ideas and making them his own, finessing them into something absolutely fucking brilliant.

And this right here: Patrick's tongue in his mouth and his dick in his hand, the whole compact bulk of him pushing, rolling through his hips until he's got Jonny on his back and they're half humping thighs, half fucking one another's fists while sucking face like a couple of horny teens…

And this: The sounds Pat makes as he comes, full of the same kind of raw, animal passion he brings to the ice, sounds Jonathan's never heard him make jerking off on his own…

And fucking _this_ : The dopey, triumphant look on Patrick's face when Jonathan's orgasm crashes in seconds later, a real nut-puncher that has him shooting hard and without warning, creaming Pat's belly and chest; the way he stares at the glob of jizz that's landed on his nipple for a too-long, tongue-lolling beat before smiling and wiping himself down with his wadded t-shirt, saying – slurring, the lisp more pronounced than ever – "Holy shit, Jonny, holy shit. Think we can call that a win for sure."

This is why Jonathan doesn't even mind that Patrick broke the rules. 

This is probably why Seabs still sees things in his face and Linds rolls her eyes at him whenever he brings up maybe altering their arrangement, getting more serious. 

This is why he's never quite let go, why he still tortures himself thinking, _maybe…_

He's still lying there, heart thundering in his chest and covered in cooling jizz when he feels the mattress shift beside him – Patrick moving away, sitting up, probably finding and pulling on his shorts. Jonathan doesn't look. He stares straight up at the ceiling, trying to remember how this goes.

There's a click, the reading light goes out, then – Jonny tells himself it's not relief he's feeling, and definitely not gratitude – Patrick's back, sliding under the covers. He steals a couple of pillows, catching Jonathan with another of those nuzzling not-kisses, face briefly mashed against his neck before he puts as much distance between them as the mattress allows and settles on his back. 

"Gonna win tom- _mah_ -rrow, too," he announces, jaw cracking around the yawn. "Rinne's going down. Gonna find lanes, you 'n' the boys are gonna _make_ 'em. Gonna stay cool, show Subby he's not the boss of you, right, Jonny?"

"Too fuckin' right," Jonathan whispers, because right now he can't envision – can't handle envisioning – any other outcome. He wipes his hand off on his thigh, then the sheet, and curls it into a loose fist. He tucks it up under his chin after he's settled in on his side, keeping Patrick's scent close, drifting off to his sleepy, mumbled rant about catfish and Ryan Ellis.

* * *


	9. Chapter 9

**Monday 17 April 2017**

They don't win. 

They don't win in the worst fucking way, watching the momentum of finally breaking Rinne's shutout in the second period, of finally playing on their own terms, stall, then disappear in the third. And if giving up a two-goal lead to some freaky bounces feels shitty, then getting completely outshot and out-willed-to-win in overtime feels even shittier, because Jonathan knows how much the boys wanted this one – worries, deep down, that they _needed_ it, despite how hard he and the other vets have been selling the down-but-never-out narrative – and hates that they weren't able to prove that on the ice.

At a more selfish level, he hates that his line couldn't make it happen, ensuring Crow's good work didn't go to waste; that _he_ couldn't build off Kaner's sweet little wrister, couldn't be the one to answer the challenge thrown down after the goal, Kaner roaring, _"Yeah baby, who's next? Let's fucking go!"_

The scene in the locker room after is grim, a claustrophobic mix of frustration and disbelief. Jonathan takes one look and agrees with Seabs that now's not the time to keep them stewing in it, that the sooner they can all get out of here the sooner they'll shake it off; the team debrief can wait for the morning meeting.

Q glares when Jonny tells him, but he accepts the decision with a sharp nod. He keeps his own comments brief, wrapping up with his hands on his hips and head on a swivel, voice deceptively mild. 

"Good news is, boys, it's real fucking simple from here on out. We've got a game in two days. One game." He holds up a finger.

"So you're going to take the next twenty-four to rest up, get your heads out of this room, this crap I'm seeing right now…get it out of your systems, alright? Whatever it takes, within reason. Talk to your captains if you need clarification on that.

"Wednesday, you're going to show up all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and I'm going to ask if you want back out on the ice, if you're so goddamn excited you can't _wait_ to get to work, to do whatever it takes to prepare to win that game, and the answer sure as hell better be yes."

Patrick keeps his head down through it all, methodically peeling off and balling up sock tape, but Jonathan doesn’t need to see his face to know what's going on there: three parts pissed off and one part anguish. He's torn between wanting to spare Pat having to do post-game – to spare himself the sight of Pat putting a brave face on it – and wanting to keep him close. He hasn't seen much of him off the ice, which isn't unusual on game days, but he'd gone back to his own room and closed the connecting doors before Jonathan woke, and they'd remained that way after lunch. 

Jonathan feels uneasy not knowing how last night's been sitting with Patrick, and now, with the loss…

He watches Patrick squeeze the ball of tape between his fingers and wonders if anyone else noticed that he'd changed into his base layer shirt in the john.

Just then Moose leans in and says something, and Pat's head comes up. 

"Nah, I got it," he says, staring into the distance. "Thanks though." He lobs his ball of sock tape into the nearest bin, sinks it clean – Jonny flashing back to last night with the socks, Pat's playful wink in contrast to this…blankness – and bends down to unlace his skates.

Jonathan catches Seabs watching and quickly looks away, gets busy stripping off the rest of his gear. He is, he realizes, fucking exhausted. And hungry. And sore. His back clearly hates him. 

_Just relax. Breathe. Focus,_ he thinks. 

When he hears the call that they're about to open the room, he is (thankfully) breathing, but he's neither relaxed nor focused. He's got no clue how he's going to get through the next five minutes, let alone however much time is between now and being back at the hotel, in bed, showered and fed and preferably unconscious.

Someone bumps his shoulder, shoves a bottle into his hand. 

"What the – "

"Drink up."

It's a coconut water. Jonathan looks at it, then at Patrick, who's dropped into the spot vacated by Panner. His shock must show on his face – Pat looks out for guys in his own way, but he's never been the mother hen type, had happily put his rookie fetch and carry days behind him – because Patrick shrugs, adding, "Toots said you looked ready to eat your shinpads. Or punch them. Either way…"

"Er, thanks."

Pat shrugs again, getting to his feet, glancing towards the outer door. "Gotta piss, but I'll be right back. And seriously, down that before you talk to the press. Toots was being generous."

"Oui maman, d'emblée," Jonathan mutters.

Patrick snorts, shaking his head as he walks away. "Don’t think you want to go there, Jon, unless there's something you're not telling me about your mom." 

Jonathan's struggling to string some diplomatic-sounding, more or less grammatical comments together about what they need to do in game four – coconut water, alas, can only do so much – when Patrick finally re-enters the room. He's calm, poised. He's rinsed his face and tucked his mad clown hair away under this season's favorite flat brim.

And as the reporters' attention shifts, Jonathan realizes two things: Patrick had been _flirting_ with him just now, his parting comment an acknowledgment, in a very roundabout and messed-up way, of this thing between them; also, he may or may not have had to actually take a piss, but he's timed his entrance on purpose, as a rescue mission.

Jonathan doesn’t know whether he wants to punch Patrick or kiss him, or maybe both – thinks he should probably stop conflating these particular urges – but knows either would be easier than admitting that he's not in control of this, and probably never was. 

_Fuuuuuck,_ he thinks, because his mind is not an elegant place right now, and escapes to the showers.

* * *


	10. Chapter 10

Jonathan's running on autopilot by the time he gets back to his room. His stomach's full, his back liniment-numb, but he's still fucking exhausted. The wine he'd indulged in with the Swedes after their meal – just a glass, but a generous one – washed away the last of the itchy, useless anger, but concentrated what's left. He fancies he can feel it settled in his gut, dense and bitter, expectant. 

_What now? What next? What've you got left?_

He's looking to the connecting door before he can stop himself. There's no light, no sound seeping underneath, so either Patrick's already asleep or he's not back yet. At the arena he'd said something about seeing Jonny later, but Jonathan has no idea if he'd actually meant something by it because it's a road habit by now, something Pat's always said, even after they'd stopped rooming together. 

Even after Pat had stopped going out chasing skirt he didn’t really want and the adoration – the validation – that he _did_. 

Even after he'd started leaving the door closed, and stopped coming to Jonny for…

_Nope. Not helping,_ Jonathan thinks, wearily slinging his backpack onto the nearest chair. Housekeeping's been in, which means the bed linens have been brutally straightened since his nap, the bolsters and assorted accent pillows perched back on their assigned pieces of furniture. They serve no purpose that Jonathan can see; they're itchy, too stiff, and the most fucking irritating shade of orange. So maybe their purpose is to piss him off. Maybe it's all part of Nashville's plan. 

"This fuckin' town," he mutters. It should be a fun place – has good music and decent restaurants, green places and water running through it – but it never is. Shit always goes wrong in Nashville, even when they're winning. Shit always feels _off_ here, something ugly lurking behind all the easy smiles.

He glances towards the windows – anonymous city lights, nowhere near as dense and soaring as Chicago's; a hint of his own reflection – and says a hearty " _Fuck_ you," to all of it. Then he grabs up the nearest orange monstrosity and throws it at the connecting door. "And fuck _you_."

He's about to do the same with the bolsters on the bed when he notices what's on the nightstand: It's Patrick's lotion, the aloe creme for his back, neatly arranged beside Jonathan's phone charger and a complimentary bottle of water.

He stares at it for a moment, mind churning over what it's doing there, what it means – _Invite for a repeat? Some sort of fucked-up declaration?_ – before the obvious sinks in: _No, you dumbass. Housekeeping._

Pat must have forgotten about it. The maids had found it wherever it had landed last night, under the bed or behind the nightstand, and assumed it was Jonathan's. He knows they've seen worse, but it's still embarrassing; along with whatever state he'd left the sheets in, it must have looked like he and his right hand had had a wild time of it.

He seizes it, suddenly furious – the anger back tenfold, a white-hot, jaw-clenching rage – at the loss, at himself, at Patrick for not keeping better track of his shit. At Patrick for making Jonny believe in impossible things, for not taking better care… 

A door slams nearby. Next door, even. Jonathan whirls around, thinking, _No, just…not now. You'd better be fucking kidding me._

But it's not his night, there's ample proof of that, as moments later there's another click and ker-thunk, then the sound of someone trying the connecting door on his side. It's locked, for which Jonathan is profoundly grateful, though he can't recall whether he'd done it before leaving for the arena or it's a Housekeeping thing, or – 

"Jonny?" Patrick bangs on the door. "Open up. I know you're awake. Moose said you only just left."

"No!" Jonathan barks, which maybe doesn't make much sense, but he doesn’t fucking care right now. 

"Uh, no you're not awake, or…?"

Jonathan finds himself nose-to-fake-wood-panel with the door without consciously deciding to walk over there, so, yeah, _Way to go, Toews._

"C'mon, man. I can hear you breathing. Let me in. We got plans to make. Schmaltzy thinks he can get us tee times at – "

"No."

"What?"

"Fuck off, Kaner." In his head, it's decisive, pissy. Final. But it doesn’t come out that way at all. To his own ears he sounds desperate. Soft. He gives in and leans his head against the door, picturing what's on the other side. Picturing – because he can’t help himself – what's going through Patrick's head right now.

He groans, adding, "Sorry, but I'm wiped, yeah? Can't we do this over breakfast?"

He hears what sounds suspiciously like a sigh, then Patrick raps once on the door and says, "For sure, Jonny. Breakfast. It's just, I… Have you seen my lotion? Think maybe I left it in there."

Jonathan starts, glancing down to where he's still clutching the tube in his left hand.

"Jon?"

"I…" It feels like it's going to burn a hole through him – whatever this is – the anger all mixed up with other stuff, all the feelings he doesn’t know what to do with. "It's mine now."

"What?!"

Jonathan straightens up, forces his own voice into a deeper range because hey, that'll totally cancel out the fact he's acting like a brat whose balls have just dropped. "I'll give it back when we're out – so not until June, hopefully – but until then, you need it, you come to me. Understood?"

"Shit, Jonny. What the _hell_? I…"

There's a long moment of silence. Jonathan thinks maybe Patrick's gone, walked away, except when he glances down he thinks he can see a shadow beneath the door. If he strains his ears, he can imagine Pat huffing, scowling, chewing on his lip.

He doesn't decide he's going to flip the lock so much as watch his right hand reach out to do it, despite knowing it's a terrible idea. And once it's unlocked…

He knows he can be an asshole, sometimes, but never a liar, when it counts. And never a coward. It's the unofficial Toews motto.

He steps back to swing the door open, then he walks through.

* * *


	11. Chapter 11

Patrick's down to his shirtsleeves, pants, and dress socks. He's wearing a half-wounded, half-startled expression, rocking his fading lip scar and under-eye circles and the scratchy-soft beginnings of his playoff beard. 

And Jonathan wants him so badly, wants so much for him, feels caught sometimes, still, in the hormonally hopped-up tangle of teen jealousy and admiration and sheer fucking _ache_ Patrick had once elicited. Just by walking in the room. Just by the way he looked at the ice. Just by the way he looked at Jonny.

For the life of him, Jonathan doesn't know how they haven't destroyed one another by now.

"I said you come to _me_ ," he says again, looming into Patrick's personal space. "Understood?" He's not even sure what he means by it, what he's really looking for here. If he were Pat he'd probably grab his lotion back, call himself a weirdo and tell himself to fuck off. 

But Patrick, he goes with it. He doesn't back away. He shuffles even closer, butting his face into Jonathan's neck – breath warm, mouth open, lips dragging along his skin – murmuring, "Mmm, sure thing, Jonny. We c'n do that. Just like old times, right? Except…" 

"Hey, whoa." Jonathan grips Patrick by the back of his neck – because that was _tongue_ he felt just now, by his earlobe, tongue and a hint of teeth sending shivers down his spine – and hauls him off with a strangled, "Pat?"

Then, because Jonathan's life is never fair and his lot never easy, Patrick looks at him like he's the one being the confusing asshole.

"I thought you wanted…" he says slowly. "Just 'cause I don’t know…'cause I'm not… Doesn't mean I don't like it, Jonny, and I want you to be – "

"What do _you_ want?" Jonathan cuts in. He lets go of Pat's neck, rests his hand on his shoulder instead. A friendly gesture, he tells himself. Platonic. In no way possessive.

Patrick shrugs, his gaze dropping to Jonathan's mouth, then back up in a lazy circuit. He busts out one of his shy smiles – lopsided, goofy, totally fucking unfair. "Well, another good night's rest, for a start," he says. "And I slept real good last night. How 'bout you?"

"You'd know, wouldn’t you? If you'd stuck around." Again, it comes out miles away from the stern tone in Jonathan's head, and Patrick's laugh only adds insult to injury.

He tells himself that the resulting head-tilt and flirty eyes in no way make up for it.

"For your grumpy-ass morning fail? No thanks." Patrick punches him lightly in the sternum – more of a nudge, really – then flattens his hand against Jonathan's chest, stares at it. "Can't sleep much past sunrise anymore, no matter where I am."

There's a joke in here somewhere, Jonathan's sure of it, the perfect opening for a chirp about receding hairlines and high-waisted pants, but Pat's just hooked his finger into the notch where the sides of Jonathan's shirt come together – rubbing the skin below, worrying at the button – and just that one, tiny bit of contact is unbearably distracting. 

Jonathan concentrates on breathing, instead, and watches – feels – as Patrick settles his other hand along his beltline. Gripping. Releasing. 

"Shit, I…Jonny, you should know, and maybe this isn't the time, but – "

"It's really fucking not," is what Jonathan means to say, but it comes out as an unintelligible mumble. He loosens his stranglehold on the tube of lotion and lets out a great sigh, leaning into the touch.

" – always good," Patrick is saying. "Not right, maybe, not righteous. Not what they'd want, for sure, and I don't… Feels weird, I guess, to think about being like that with you. Pisses me off, too. Because I'm not…the shit people say, I _don’t_ want that. 'M not anyone's little bitch –"

" _Jesus_ , Kaner, who ever said – " 

"Just let me finish, alright?" Patrick says roughly, stilling his hands. Jonathan could easily step back, put some distance between them. Should do. But.

He stays. 

He swallows down the anger and the nerves, and stares out beyond Patrick into the room. It's the mirror of Jonathan's – same stupid accent pillows, same awful prints on the wall – but it's got Patrick's stuff in it, the tidy spread meant to fill the space, make him feel like he belongs here, like he's not one game away from being sent home. 

And now Jonathan's got Pat's scent in his nostrils, and Patrick is still _touching_ him, that single finger like a brand on his bare skin. Even after all he's been through in the past twenty-four hours, that just about does it for him in the dick department.

Then Patrick comes out with, "I don’t mind when it's you, Jonny. When you push me around. Put your hands on me. Watch me like…I mean, I _mind_ , but I also… Yeah, I like it. I like it a lot."

"Uh, yeah?" Jonathan says. All his blood's definitely in his dick now. He sucks in his gut, subtly trying to angle his hips away.

"Too much, maybe."

"Shit." Jonathan exhales, giving up. There's no hiding it now. And Pat just said… "What's too much?"

"Like sometimes I can’t get…uh, into things, you know. And you know how you think about random stuff when you're jerking off?"

Jonathan feels the hand at his waist drift down, then a subtle pressure on his dick – just a brush of knuckles, tracing the shape of it – hears the shift in Pat's breathing, his quiet, "Damn, Jon."

" 'Course," Jonathan says, trying to sound reassuring. Comes off more like he's constipated, but Patrick doesn’t seem to care. He's mapping Jonny's dick with his thumb now, practically petting it. He's pushing his fingertips under Jonny's shirt.

"Or you tell yourself it's random, but maybe it's not?"

"Sure."

"She's the one who figured it out," Patrick murmurs. "Before I did, even. She's smart like that – and god knows what I've said wasted over the years – but if I'm having trouble, she'll be all, 'What if Jonny were here, huh, Patty? What if he was sitting right there in that chair, watching us, telling me exactly how I should lick your balls? Telling you to shut up and enjoy it.' "

"Wow. That's…"

"Yeah. And she's never being mean about it, but I see the look in her eyes when that's what does it _again._ When it's you in my head, or…or someone like you, every damn time, even when she's not saying anything, and I feel like shit after, and she's so fucking _nice_ about it, to my face, at any rate, but I –"

"Hey, _hey._ Ease up, there." Jonathan fumbles his hand down Patrick's arm, pushes his hand away from his dick. "Can't think with you doing that."

Pat snorts. "Yeah, and apparently I like that, too."

"What?"

"How hard you get for me. All worked up, crazy-eyed. No shame."

Jonathan tries to pull away. "Because there is _nothing fucking shameful_ about being attracted to – "

"Whoa! Didn’t mean it like that." Patrick grips Jonathan by his shirtfront, keeps him close like they're about to fight. He claps his other hand – _the just-on-my-dick hand_ Jonathan can't help thinking – around his neck, pulling his head down beside Patrick's. 

"I only meant you're so good at it," he adds, tugging the short hair at the back, kneading the stubborn muscle of Jonathan's neck in a way that Pat _has_ to know makes him weak. "The best, even. Looking at me like you just fucking want a piece, like, yesterday. 

"And with you I know it's not about anything other than… You've got your own thing, your own people. We make the same money. And you've already seen me at my worst, yeah? Know all my habits, my secrets and shit."

"I know your shit don’t smell like roses," Jonathan mumbles, determined to keep the upper hand here. 

"Better than yours, Captain Diarrhea."

"Fuck off."

"No chance, buddy," Pat says fondly. "Not tonight."

Jonathan huffs. He slips the tube of lotion into his pocket so he can get both hands on Patrick's hips, his waist – can properly map the actual shape and breadth of him beneath his terrible shirt. "Then go back to explaining why you're so into me all of a sudden."

Patrick snorts again, but this time it's more of a chuckle, his torso shaking beneath Jonny's hands. "Not sudden, just…I honestly thought it'd be easier. That you were good, happier with Linds, and that I…I was doing what I was supposed to. What was possible." 

He shrugs, then pulls back, forcing Jonathan to look him in the eyes.

"But when you're still looking at me like that – like I'm _it_ – even when I'm off my game, even when we lose… Jonny, I feel that. I do. For real. Don’t know what the hell to do about it, but – "

Jonathan hauls him in, kisses him. It's sloppy and too much and never, ever enough.

"How about you shut up and let me suck your dick?" he growls when he decides to come up for air. But he doesn’t let Pat answer right away. He dives back in for more kissing, and by the time Pat's gasping his enthusiastic consent, Jonathan's got him laid out on the bed, bare-chested, pants yanked down to mid-thigh, and wet, red dick pulled through the fly in his briefs.

He doesn’t mean to be a tease, but he needs a moment to catch his breath, to really look, so he hears Patrick's groan, his rasping, "Yeah, Jonny, _please."_

And if anyone had told him growing up that one day he'd have an entirely sober, sincere Patrick Kane begging him to get his mouth on his dick, he would have punched them in the face – still would, probably, because that shit's private – then jerked himself raw to the thought of it. Which…

"I got you, sweetheart," he says, unbuckling his own belt, unzipping his fly. He strips Pat's pants off the rest of the way so he can push his thighs farther apart, then settles between them. He already knows his back's gonna hate him come morning.

He already knows he doesn't care.

* * *


	12. Chapter 12

**Tuesday 18 April 2017**

Jonathan surfaces mid-dream – something about a mix-up at a warehouse, frustration, a sense of urgency – because his arm's gone numb and it feels like he's sweating through the sheets. His back is stiff, his throat's raw, and his mouth tastes disgusting. 

He groans, thinking _no fuckin' way_ – he hates being sick, refuses to be, on general principal – before he realizes that he's got it all wrong. It's not that he's sick; it's that he's not alone. The extra heat's coming from the body nuzzled up behind him. 

He smiles at the feel of warm lips at his neck and an arm snug around his waist, hand idly petting his stomach. He must have convinced Linds to stay over last night with the promise of morning sex. Which is nice. He may be bad at mornings in general, but morning sex is another story, especially when Linds is feeling frisky, clearly happy to play the big spoon, so he hopes it's still early enough that they'll have time to…

 _Wait. No. That's not right. That's not –_ Jonathan opens his eyes, heart racing. 

The room is still fairly dark, but he knows it's not his. The door is in the wrong place, for a start, and Linds didn’t stay over last night, couldn't have, because it's the playoffs and he's not even in Chicago – _Fucking three down in Nashville_ his brain reminds him – and Linds doesn’t have calluses and scrubby not-nails or a faceful of stubble. Or a dick. Or rather, she has multiple dicks, but they usually live in a locked case in her condo, and none (to his knowledge) are soft and flesh-and-blood warm or accessorized with exuberant bush. 

So. _Shit._

He went to bed with Kaner last night. Again. Went to bed with him, got his hands and mouth all over him – got off on it hard, too, as he recalls – and said a whole lot of shit he probably shouldn’t of because –

"Hey," Patrick mumbles, hand retreating to Jonathan's hip. "Yoowake?" 

Jonathan closes his eyes again, squeezing his facial muscles until he's seeing trippy patterns on the backs of his lids. It's nowhere near enough distraction from the truth.

_Because I wanted to. Because last night it felt…real._

Dumb, dangerous even, but fucking _right,_ true to himself in ways he realizes he hasn't let himself be around Patrick for a while now and – if Jonathan's being brutally honest – it still does. Feels right. Feels true.

And even if he's made a fool of himself, he thinks it might be worth it given that Patrick's not just still here, but _here_ here, all up on Jonathan, not trying to hide the way his dick's thickening up as Jonny subtly flexes and pushes back against him.

"Myeah that's…uh, Jonny?" Patrick digs his fingers into Jonathan's hip, catching the edge of a bruise.

Jonathan grits his teeth and repeats the motion, this time with what he hopes is an encouraging hum. He's not up to talking yet, thinks he's done enough of that, but his body's still on board with the whole morning sex plan. His dick, in particular, is getting pretty revved up at the idea of morning sex with Patrick, fuelled by memories of last night.

_Thick cords of thigh muscle shaking under his hands, the low, rasping litany of, "Oh my god, Jonny. Oh my god." The look on Patrick's face, all the looks, but especially the one after he'd finally been allowed to come down Jonathan's throat, almost like he'd been sucker-punched, gasping for air and fighting to keep his eyes open, intent on watching Jonny finish himself off._

"Jon?" Patrick pushes up onto an elbow with a huff, scooting his hips back. "Seriously, man. You up?"

"Ungh," Jonathan grunts. His ass feels cold now, already missing Patrick's body heat, and he's annoyed at the interruption of his fantasy. Or replay, actually, because that definitely happened, but now it seems he's gonna be weird about it. "Y'know what? Nope. Not if you're freaking out on me." 

He rolls onto his stomach and drags a pillow over his head, resisting the urge to grind his dick against the mattress. Poor thing still thinks it's getting some.

The sudden jounce of the mattress isn't exactly a surprise, nor is Patrick's attempt to remove the pillow. Jonathan losing the resulting tug-of-war in mere seconds, however, is another matter. He tells himself it's because he didn't give it his all. He tells himself it's because Patrick's _laughing_ , this weird breathy chuckle that catches him off guard, gives him the hot shivers.

He braces for a blow. When it doesn't come right away, he gropes blindly for another pillow. Before he can find one, Patrick rips the covers off, then lands a hearty slap on his ass. 

"What the hell?" Jonathan tries to flip over, but is bulldozed flat, all 170-something naked, still-laughing pounds of Patrick sprawled on top of him, pinning his arms. Pat hooks his chin over Jonny's shoulder, mashes his face right up against his ear.

" 'M not freaking out, asshole." Jonathan can feel Patrick's lisp as much as hear it, squirms at the wet nudge of tongue. "But we're due downstairs in twenty 'n' I'd hate to rush you, you know, if you're finally gonna give me that lap dance you promised, and – "

"Fuck off! I never – "

"Did too," Patrick croons. He eases his hold on Jonny's arms but stays put, wriggling his hips. "Twenty thirteen Western Conference final, after yours truly put the Kings to bed in double OT. Eighth of June. Or ninth, actually, by the time we got outta there. Ring any bells?"

"Ugh," Jonathan says, wincing as much from the memory of that night – or rather, the remnants; there are definite reasons why he avoids tequila these days – as the twinge in his back. "That wasn't… I had nothing to do with that. That was all Bicks and Shawzy."

"At the bar, sure. I was talking about after, though, in the car. When you apologized for all the team cockblocking 'n' said you'd make it up to me. Times three, even, because of my hatty."

Jonathan groans. "How do you even remember this shit? You were off your face. Way more'n me."

"Mind like a steel trap where it counts, sweet cheeks." 

"Oh my god!" Jonathan works an arm free and starts slapping behind him at whatever parts of Patrick he can reach. 

"Also you – ow, fucker, that stings! – you were pretty graphic, Jonny. Telling me just how it'd be, how good you'd make it. Made an impression for sure."

Jonathan shivers at the admission, the matter-of-fact delivery. The implication that it was something Patrick _wanted_ to remember, had been thinking about, all this time, maybe even imagining when he… Yeah, that's not helping Jonny's dick situation.

"If you say so," he grouses, thumping Patrick in the ribs. "Now let me up. Gotta piss." 

"Uh-huh. I bet you do." Patrick shimmies off, landing a couple more smacks before Jonathan is able to flip over. 

He's not sure why he doesn't leave it there. Habit, probably, all those years of half-assed wrestling over the dumbest shit. In no time at all he's got Patrick on his back, heaving underneath him, but unlike all those other times they're both naked and Pat's not trying to hide his arousal, nor his face. His smile is bright, his eyes open; still, there's a hesitancy there, a hint of uncertainty that Jonathan can't stand. 

He takes Patrick's face in his hands, saying, "First I'm gonna do this though," and leans down to kiss him, morning breath be damned.

It's sweeter than it should be. Hotter, too, especially when Patrick gets his hands on Jonathan's ass and starts kneading it, rutting up against his thigh. He hums into Jonathan's mouth, throat working to swallow, letting him lick in deep, then chasing the kiss whenever Jonny starts to pull back.

It's a bitch of a thing to put a stop to, but they both know being late is not an option. Jonathan breaks the kiss with a sloppy, exaggerated smooch to Pat's upper lip, then buries his face in his neck. 

"You wanted a piece of this, should'a woken me sooner," he murmurs, flexing his glutes. He breathes in a final lungful of Patrick's scent – so goddamn _good,_ stale cologne and sour sex sweat and all; it floods his brain with happy juice, and he wonders just how weird that is, and when he became such an addict – and tears himself away, up and off the bed. 

He can feel Patrick's eyes on him as he hunts down his clothing. It's fucking distracting, and no help at all in ridding him of his awkward boner waddle. 

"Better get crackin'," he says, balling up his shirt and lobbing it at Patrick's head. It unfurls mid-air, landing in a harmless cloud by his left shoulder.

Patrick snorts, sitting up. "Rude, man." He swings his legs over the side of the bed, then palms his junk, caging his half-hard dick up against his abdomen. "And a tease. How you even manage to keep a girl, I don't know."

But he's smiling as he says it, and so is Jonathan when he flips Patrick off and heads back to his own room to rinse off. He leaves the connecting doors open.

* * *


	13. Chapter 13

By the time Jonathan sticks his head back in, Patrick's already showered and dressed, perched on the edge of the ottoman. He's a whole other person like this, wet hair dark and sleek against his skull, body neatly wrapped in navy polo and grey trousers. He looks good, strong. On another morning Jonathan might say he looks untouchable, too, but right now he knows better; he's still got a little buzz from that kiss, from all the teasing and laughter and warm, bare skin.

"Hey, did you need – " He waves the tube of lotion he'd re-discovered in his trouser pocket, breaking off when he spots the phone pressed to Patrick's ear.

Without even looking, Patrick holds up a forefinger, like Jonathan's some random interrupting his meal. And it's nothing, really, but… 

He retreats to his bathroom and, after scowling at his reflection – morning after is still such a _dumb_ look on him, no matter how much Linds claims he's grown into his face – stashes the lotion inside his dopp kit. 

The only way this'll work, the only way it has ever worked, is if they are teammates first. Jonathan's got to stick to the rules, manage his expectations. He can't get pissy about having to share Patrick's attention, can't expect to have last night's raw, needy affection available whenever he likes. 

Odds are this thing doesn't have legs beyond the playoffs; it's dangerous to think otherwise. Patrick may yet work things out with his girl, or maybe he won't, but regardless summer will steal him away, back to the people who love him but who'll never let him be someone new. 

Jonathan better live his own damn truth, or at least the one he's been trying to live, and be in the moment. Enjoy the good stuff. Embrace the bad stuff. Learn from everything.

"Tazer!" Patrick calls out. "Dude, where'd you – "

"What?" Jonathan barks. He zips his dopp kit closed and strides out of the bathroom. He can do this.

Patrick's in the connecting doorway now, phone held to his chest. "Hey." He gives a little chin nod. "Hermitage has a bunch of tee times around eleven on President's and the other one at ten-fifteen or after two."

Timewise ten-fifteen works best, but Jonathan hates the sightlines on that course. He's about to say as much, but gets distracted by the way Patrick's looking at him: down then up in a lazy slide, lips quirked and eyes bright.

It's nothing new, per se – Jonathan's used to being cruised, still gets a thrill from it in the right context – but this isn't some random giving him a discreet once-over at Trader Joe's or flashing dick in a club bathroom. This isn't Friday night in Boystown, or a beach on the French Riviera.

This is Tuesday morning. In fucking Nashville. 

This is Patrick straight up leering at him, filthy and smug, but silly, too, which somehow makes it hotter. It's Patrick walking right up to him and reaching out with his free hand, skimming his knuckles down Jonny's chest and abs easy as anything, like he couldn't keep away. Like he knows exactly what he's doing to Jonny's composure – ears warm and breath coming faster; that sudden ache in his gut that has nothing to do with wanting breakfast – and doesn't care that Schmaltzy or whoever is a heartbeat away on the phone.

"Jon?" 

Jonathan shoves his hands in his pockets. He _can_ do this, but he just… Fuck it. He needs a minute. Or several. He suspects that no amount of belly breathing is going to make trying to act normal around Patrick in front of their teammates all day any easier.

"You in?"

Jonathan shakes his head, gives Pat what he hopes passes for a rueful smile. "Sorry, can't. Got some calls lined up after the meeting. Then lunch plans and, uh, a treatment for my back." 

Patrick pulls a face, like he can see right through Jonny's bullshit, but he doesn't comment.

"Yeah, no, just me," he says, turning aside and lifting the phone to his ear. "Tazer's having himself a spa day, so whichever you guys... Yep, totally. You can say that to his face though… Sure thing. See you in five."

"Spa day?" Jonathan snorts. "Gee, thanks."

Patrick slips his phone into his pocket and shrugs. The leer, which had subsided somewhat, comes back full force, then he motherfucking _winks_ at Jonny, saying, "Hey, sounds better than 'Tazer needs some alone time to recover from sucking my dick.'"

"Oh my god, you – " Jonny closes his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply through his nose, digging his fingers into his thighs through his pockets so he doesn't do something stupid. He knows he should probably just laugh it off, roll his eyes and call Kaner an asshole. Or better yet, just walk away. 

_Yes, that one,_ he tells himself. _Walk away, Toews._

He is, in fact, doing that very thing when Patrick chuckles, and Jonathan's self-restraint snaps. The bitter, savage part of his ego takes over. He sneers, practically spitting in Patrick's face as he says, "Can't believe I'm wasting my free dick pass on such a fucking _child_."

Patrick jerks his head back as if he's been slapped, eyes opening wide for a moment before narrowing. He looks more annoyed than hurt, though, and that just pisses Jonny off even more.

"Jesus, Jonny, I – " 

They both startle at the sudden, furious pounding on the outer door. 

"Hope you got your panties on, Jonny boy," Seabs hollers. "Duncs and I are fining whoever's last to show, and it'll be double for you."

Patrick gives him a hard, inscrutable look. Then, to his complete surprise, he brushes past, walks over to the door – _Jonathan's_ door – and opens it.

"Mornin', Seabs," Patrick says, stepping out into the hall.

"Oh! Kaner. Hey." Seabs' expression goes from surprise to concern as he spots Jonathan. "Everything okay?"

He knows how crazed he must look right now, so he tries smiling. He's not sure it helps. 

"Hey Brent. Just heading out. Let me grab my jacket."

Seabs grunts, giving him a nod. As Jonathan's ducking back around the corner he hears Patrick saying, "Sorry, bud. If you want Tazer's cash looks like you're gonna have to roll him in the elevator."

Seabs bursts out laughing. "You going to help?"

"Eh, we'll see," comes the reply, loud enough for Jonathan to overhear. "Certainly not going to stop you. Asshole woke me up early to whine about special teams."

 _Asshole, indeed,_ Jonathan thinks with a wince. He tries to catch Patrick's eye on the way to the elevator, but they run into Travis, Hartzy, Breadman, and Kers, and Seabs eggs them all into a race – seven grown men dodging linen carts and discarded room service, jostling for position in front of the elevator doors. 

It's stupid, but exactly what Jonathan needs. Someone gets him good with an elbow, right in the ribs. He's pretty sure it's Patrick.

* * *


	14. Chapter 14

They do twenty minutes team-only to start the meeting, mostly circle time after a brief speech by Seabs. A lot of guys pass when it's their turn – it's in moments like these where Jonathan feels karma paying him back for every time he bitched about Steeger's lip or Shawzy's yammering; this group is so goddamn quiet sometimes it's unnerving – but what _is_ said is solid. 

What's more, watching body language, Jonathan's reassured that what is said is actually being heard. No one's given up and checked out for the season, even if some are a bit bleary-eyed or plainly eager to get on with their off day. 

"Enjoy it, boys," Jonathan adds before they invite the coaching staff in. "But don't get used to it. There's a whole lot more hockey waiting to be played back in Chicago. Looking around this room, I don't see a single reason we can't get there."

"Hear fucking hear!" someone calls out as guys start foot-stomping and banging cups on the furniture. 

It takes Jonathan a moment, following the direction of the others' gaze, to process that it was Patrick's voice, morning raw but pitched to carry, like he's on the ice. He's leaning forward in his chair, head down, water bottle held aloft. He looks up, flashing that fierce, asshole grin of his around the room – he catches Jonny's eye for no more than a second, but that's enough to rattle him – and stands up.

"More hockey," Patrick adds, punching Breadman's shoulder with his free hand. "Sounds good, da?"

Smiling, Artemi stands and thumps Patrick in the chest. He taps his cup to Pat's water bottle. "More hockey, yes."

"More hockey _please_ ," cries Soupy from across the circle, raising his coffee, "because I still do not know a damn thing about building treehouses!" 

That gets a big laugh and more than a few chirps – they all know how much Soupy adores his family and any damn thing that resembles getting to play suburban dad-of-the-year – but those sort of jokes have never sat well with Jonathan, especially not coming from a guy facing retirement. They stir up shit he's uneasy about, shit he's got shoved way, way down, including the questions no hockey player ever wants to answer.

_What's next? Who am I if I'm not one of the boys? What if I end up like Monty…or Mikita? Name on the Cup, number in the rafters – what's it all mean if someday I won't be able to remember?_

Jonathan sneaks another look at Patrick – slick and self-assured, every inch part of the leadership, letter or no – and knows he'd made the right call earlier about steering clear for the day. His discipline's shot; his usual mantras and compartmentalization tricks aren't cutting it.

Right now it's too much work trying to see Patrick as "good old Kaner" when all Jonny wants is to be back in bed with the messy, laughing version of him. Waking up to the warmth of him spooned naked along his back, only knowing it's Pat from the get-go this time. No goddamn alarms, nothing between them but sweat and unfulfilled promises.

Right now, Soupy's just another reminder that there's a clock on this thing. That getting tossed means a long summer without Patrick, longer even than the last, and that a treehouse – or anything else on a hypothetical wife's to-do list – is going to be the least of his fucking concerns when it's his turn to clean out his locker for good.

Jonathan surges up from his chair, not wanting to be the last one on his feet, and joins in on the toast. His tea's gone lukewarm and bitter. He downs the lot anyway, then crushes the cup in his fist. He catches Seabs watching from the corner of his eye.

"What?" he says. He turns to face him as the coaching staff starts filing in, trying his damnedest to project that he's not in the mood for brotherly concern. 

Seabs studies Jonathan with that stupid rookie-wrangling expression that's like, according to Duncs, a mutant cross between a St. Bernard and an angry pig. 

"All good there, bud?"

"Fuckin' peachy." It comes out pissier than Jonathan had intended, but whatever. He's done his duty; he knows that much. He just wants to survive the game debrief, get away from Patrick – and now Seabs, too – and get his head on straight. 

"So I see." Seabs looks pointedly at the crushed cup in his hand. "Save some of that fire for Thursday, eh? And my offer still – "

"Makes it more compact for recycling," Jonathan cuts in. Then he brushes past Seabs, stalks over to Hoss and, as Q kicks things off, informs him in no uncertain terms that they have standing lunch plans. "On me," he clarifies at Marian's bemused expression. "Plus anyone you like…except Seabs."

And because Hoss is, not a saint – not by a long shot – but one of the closest things to one Jonathan's encountered in the league, he merely chuckles and claps Jonny on the shoulder.

"No Brent, got it," he murmurs. "Very good. We can go somewhere decent then."

"You bet." Jonathan returns the gesture, then moves off to find a seat near the doors. He's just starting to breathe easy when he feels eyes on him. He doesn't even need to look to know they are Patrick's. 

He tries telling himself it's all perfectly innocent, because Kitch is talking power play now, and that's still their thing, but apparently even he doesn't believe his own bullshit. He keeps his eyes front, his arms crossed over his chest.

_"Sweetheart," you called him. Told him how good he smells, how good he tastes. How you didn't always like sucking dick, but you love sucking his. How much it used to eat you up, walking in on scattered heels and cascades of hair, angel faces working so sweet and earnest between his thighs when he couldn't even look at them, let alone remember their names, how much you wanted… Breathe, Toews. Focus._

* * *


End file.
